


the hollow

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 00:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9212417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: September 10, 1998. Sam has a plan for the afternoon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _The Hollow_ , track one of _Mer de Noms_

_Run, desire; run, sexual being_  
_Run him like a blade to and through the heart_  
_No conscience, one motive:_  
_To cater to the hollow_

The motel phone is ringing and the shower’s running when Sam comes home from school. He locks the door behind him, toes the salt line back into place, drops his backpack onto the rickety table, and steadily ignores the ringing as he pulls out his book for English, his notebook and pen. By the time it stops shrilling into the dim little room he’s flat on his belly on the bed, jacket and shoes off, reading.

It’s only another five minutes before the water turns off, and there’s the rattle of metal rings as Dean yanks the curtain back. Sam licks his lips. He’s watching the bathroom door, not pretending to pay attention to the book anymore, and so he gets a great view when it swings open and there’s Dean in the gout of steam, flushed pink and wet and holding a towel in one hand, gleaming under the bathroom's fluorescent light—then Dean sees him sitting there and there’s wide-shocked eyes and the hasty way he snaps the towel around his hips, but not before Sam gets his eyeful.

“Hey,” Sam says, eyebrows raised.

Dean runs a hand through his wet hair, the flush on his throat getting darker. “Sammy,” he says, a little faint, and then he frowns. “What are you doing home, already?”

“They let us out early, some kind of teacher in-service thing,” he says. Dean’s frown clears up and he moves over to the duffels pushed up against the wall, crouches to rummage around in his clothes, the towel still clutched around his waist, all modest. Sam pushes up and sits cross-legged on the bed so he doesn’t miss the view of Dean’s back, tan and pretty and freckled, water beaded up and rolling slowly down the furrow of his spine. When Dean turns around, boxers and a t-shirt in hand, Sam waves the book at him. “I was going to write this book report, but then I got a better idea.”

Dean rolls his eyes, recovered a little, though he’s still all flushed and Sam doesn’t think it’s just from the shower. “You’ve got a one-track mind, you know that?” Sam shrugs and Dean shakes his head, goes back into the bathroom. “What book?” he says, over his shoulder.

Sam drops it to the bed, scoots forward on the mattress so he can still see as Dean unwinds the towel, scrubs it roughly over his arms and back, over his legs in turn, over his bare pale ass. He swallows, almost forgets to answer. “ _Hatchet_ ,” he says, eventually. “Again.”

Dean makes a little muffled noise as he tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Yeah, but you like that one, right?” he says, stepping into the worn-thin boxers. Sam drops a hand to his crotch, watching, and then Dean flicks off the bathroom light and steps back out into the main room, half-dressed and damp and just incredibly, stupidly hot. “That’s the one—with the kid lost out in the woods or whatever? And he figures out how to save himself with an axe.”

“Well, a hatchet,” Sam corrects, absently, his eyes still on the familiar bow of Dean’s thighs, and Dean rolls his eyes again, goes over to the fridge to get himself a beer. “And it was a lot better when I read it in sixth grade, the first time. I can’t believe this crappy school is assigning it to sophomores.”

Dean cracks the beer open on the side of the kitchenette counter, says, “Yeah, yeah, genius,” but he’s got a little smile on his face and Sam just wants to drag him down to the bed, wants to spoil the shower Dean just took, and then the phone rings, again, and the smile wipes right off of Dean’s face.

Sam drops onto his back on the bed, sighing, when Dean picks up. He looks up at the water-stained ceiling, lit in bright stripes with the afternoon creeping through the blinds, and listens to Dean’s half of the conversation. All murmured _yes, sir_ and _no, sir_ and _three bags full, sir_ , and Sam slips his hand down past his belt, palms himself, waiting for Dean to hang up. Dad usually leaves them alone for longer than this, and at this point it’s a relief—he gets Dean to himself, gets to pretend they’ve got some corner of a normal life. It’s a weird one, sure, but it’s his, and it makes it easier when they’re stuck on a hunt or trapped under Dad’s drill sergeant routine—thinking about this. How he gets to have this. He tucks his fingers into his fly, rolls his balls a little, and by the time Dean clicks the receiver down he’s hard all the way, ready, but then Dean says, without turning around, “Dad’s coming to pick us up tonight.”

It’s a poisoned lead ball dropping into Sam’s stomach. He sits up, fast, onto the edge of the bed. “What the hell, Dean?” he says. Dean turns, looking resigned. “It’s only—we’ve only been here for a week!”

Dean crosses an arm over his chest, shrugs. “There’s some kind of mysterious death thing going on in Lexington,” he says, and he’s not even—he’s not even _annoyed_ , just stating the facts, and Sam kind of wants to punch him all of a sudden. “Dad’s gonna be here around midnight or one, he said, so we gotta make sure we’re packed up.”

“So that’s it?” Sam says, and his hands are digging too hard into his thighs. “No argument, just _yessir_ , we’ve got to go?” Dean licks his lips, then bites into the bottom one and shrugs again, looks down, and it’s just so—so _fucking_ frustrating sometimes. Sam stands up, and Dean’s saying, “You were just complaining about this school,” trying to be reasonable, but that’s not the point, not at all, and Sam’s still hard and Dean’s still half-naked, but now Sam’s pissed, and he crosses the narrow space in a second and backs Dean up so his lower back crams up tight against the counter, shoves his crotch against Dean’s thigh, so Dean can feel it.

“Whoa, Sammy—” Dean starts but Sam grabs the back of his neck in one hand, pulls him down and kisses him, hard, pushes his tongue in past Dean’s teeth when Dean opens his mouth in shock—and then Dean’s hands land on his hips, his mouth going easy and soft for Sam. So easy, he always is, ever since the first time Sam asked for this, confused and desperate and wanting anything that would ease it, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to say no. He crams his other hand tight over Dean’s dick and Dean flinches, from his hips to where Sam’s nearly biting at his mouth, and Sam wrenches his head down more, wishes he were tall enough that this could be as easy as he imagines it, sometimes.

“I want to suck your dick,” he says, not whispering, clear and firm up into Dean’s ear, and pulls back enough to see Dean flushed dark, eyes wide, mouth open and wet and plump from how Sam’s been working him. “I’m gonna. Right now. You gonna say no?”

He never does, not really, and he doesn’t disappoint now. Sam goes down to his knees right there, denim slipping a little on the linoleum, and when he looks up Dean’s just staring down at him, hands wrapped tight around the edge of the counter. Sam breathes out damply against his boner popping out the front of the boxers, lets his chin graze over the stiff-hot of it under the soft thin fabric. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, the blood high in his face and that edge of guilt shearing away, and Sam grins up at him, a weird kind of triumph viciously tight in his belly. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and Sam hauls down his boxers, his own dick jumping in his shorts when Dean’s pops out hard and ready, brushes up silky against his cheek, and then he sucks it in, sucks it down, wetting the length of it all the way to the base like he’s learned to do before he pulls back off, gasping. He grabs the base of it in one hand, sliding his other hand up the back of Dean’s thigh to grab his ass, licking his lips. He knows what he wants, now, and Dean’s going to give it to him, at least twice, before Dad comes home. He'll have it dark and rich and massive behind his eyes, have the knowing of the look Dean gets when he's about to come fresh in his mind, so that when Dad asks how everything went Sam'll say, _fine, sir_ , with the taste of Dean thick under his tongue.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, shaking fingers sliding so-gentle over his temple, along the shell of his ear.

He kneels up a little more, looks Dean in the eye. "It's Sam," he says, and then opens his mouth and fills himself up with what he can take from his brother.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/155436862234/the-hollow)


End file.
